


Agony, empathy, ecstasy

by renaissancepalette



Category: Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Crushes, Domestic, Edwardian Period, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Mush, Michelle is a lady who's not really waiting, Period Typical Attitudes, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19260964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissancepalette/pseuds/renaissancepalette
Summary: It’s said that soulmates are perfect relationships of beautiful, enriching connections, and there is a match made for everyone.Michelle doesn't believe in soulmates. The very idea of the possibility is preposterous and fantasy. Surely the idea of it and romance is nice, but with a family like hers with expectations and a reputation to keep, they don't make it exceptionally easy.Once during an eventing show at the local theatre, in the audience below the apprentice Parker glances up at the balcony and lands eyes on the most exquisite creature he's ever laid eyes. Since, he's had a strong urgency to find who she is and tell her.[ ALTERNATIVELY - Pride and Prejudice adjacent AU ]





	Agony, empathy, ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i have been in a terrible rut with writing for a long time.
> 
> 2\. since i'm trying to break out of this fog, here is a starting part of this “old world” late european edwardian spideychelle idea that I ended up written down. this was planned to be written as one of tumbler's bulletpoint fic but let’s toss that out the window now.
> 
> 3\. this is a regency au. inspired by pride and prejudice. inspired because the original idea was for mj to be darcy and peter to be jane, but given the time difference and social expectations of men and women back then, it's been a little revamped
> 
> 4\. let’s also not hold on to historical accuracy and gently toss it out too.
> 
> 5\. in here, michelle and mary jane are half sisters.
> 
> 6\. Hope you enjoy! xoxox

 

 

> _“we fall in love._ _  
> _ _as if we know_ _  
> _ _we will break.” — Della Hicks-Wilson_

 

 

**_Michelle J. Watson_ **

* * *

It starts at a theatre.

Mr. Watson received his tickets exclusively for the balcony chairs. And thus, his family dressed accordingly: his wife adorned in fine jewelry; their daughter, Mary Jane, fashioned her hair in a pretty braid encircling her carefully pinned up-do, her pale skin turned milky with powder; and Michelle wore her mother’s old amethyst necklace, long white gloves down to her elbows and a long violet ribbon woven in her hair which is a habit she's long since had though the accessory rarely matches her gowns.

It happens at a theatre and Michelle is up in the balcony carefully shrouded by her tall father but when the lights shown just right, a young man down in the audience notices the glimmer of the stone pinned near her neckline and the long white gloves and a face that makes him do a double-take; pulls his attention from the performance on stage, causes him to blink, stare, and catch a final glimpse before she falls back in shadow. He sees a glimmer of teeth as she laughs at the actors. He turns back to the front, shakes his head.

The young man, a blacksmith and apprentice to a boastful inventor, hadn't continued to look for attention purposes, but because of the large broach on her collar—it had been the same broach seen three weeks ago pinned on the quiet woman who’d given him a much deserving backhand in the market after he’d followed the flawed advise for flirting from his mentor. She’d stormed off after the encounter but Peter is _moderately_ sure this is has to be the same woman.

He slumps in his chair and tries to make himself appear smaller. Although the performance on stage earns the audience’s roars of laughter, Peter is thinking back to just hours ago after mistakeningly snagging one of her gloves and her yelp in fear that a stranger was to expose her to the public so indecently.

He remembers weeks ago being left in the street rubbing his right cheek as she huffs and hurries off. He hadn't known what to do then to explain the misunderstanding and him being mislead. But all he _does_ knows right now is that she has his attention, still, and he runs a hand through his tussled hair and continues stealing glances above throughout the performance.

He’s had the worse luck since running into her—their very first “meeting” being burning her hand with a hot baked good—and it doesn't seem to be lifting any time soon. Peter’s _pretty sure_ that she’s to blame, by some unknown cosmic explanation, every time he’s so much as gets a _glimpse_ of her on the street, he falls to his face on the ground, he’s hit in the head by a thrown package, or he burns his hands on hot iron, or gets mud on the papers he’d been reading.

He’s embarrassed, and doesn't seem to be able to escape the dreadful incidents involving her, he thinks, _it seems_.

Harry Osborn, the young man beside him, catches Peter’s gaze and follows. The man on Harry’s right—who isn't a part of their party—does the same, catches the glimmer of melanin, and his nose wrinkles in distaste.

It all goes down at a theatre—in a _positive way—_ and it could not have been a more perfect set up for this tragedy.

Peter impatiently waits for the performance to end and actively _rushes_ through the sea of people, avoiding Harry’s alarmed calls, in hopes to meet the unknown woman as she's descending the stairs—doesn't know what to say or what to do next, but he knows he _must_ clear his name to her in order to erase this string of bad luck. And he's more one-track minded and his brain hasn't yet jumped to that conclusion but he knows if he doesn’t _now_ , there might not be a _next time_. Peter pushes past people, repeating apologies, but still doesn't make it in time. And so, the woman from the balcony remains nothing but a dream, a pretty face who is left to swim in his mind and ebb away into the smudge of a memory.

He visits the theatre twice more when they hold popular showings in hopes of running past her before finally giving up.

* * *

 He doesn't think it would be likely to run into her again until he does one late evening while coming across a gathering of people to a newsboy telling about some headline. Peter sees her because she's wearing a short, flowered pink veil fascinator from a small hat and chatting with a baker, he sees through the opened window. For the mysterious woman to be wearing the veil is the most confusing thing to him, but for her it provides her at least the tiniest bit of safety.

From a distance, the young man watches and never takes his eyesight from her, being bypassed in the busy sidewalk, and watches a white-gloved hand raise as if in laughter, while her servant—a woman, older, but much paler—fills a basket with fresh muffins wrapped in cloth, savory treats, and shaped cookies in a small pouch for Mr. Watson. The mysterious woman brushes aside the veil in reflex, like hair, to eat a muffin and that’s when Peter _sees_ her face and creeps closer ever so slowly, warily, doesn't look before stepping into the road and is almost ran over by a horse.

He watches from afar as the conversation ends and both women breeze through the market next-door, grabs some eggs, fabrics, pauses at a bouquet of flowers near the exit way. Nervously, Peter’s gaze follows for so long that she goes through her shopping list and is exiting the market store but is called back by the owners of the small bakery shop—she knows them, it appears. And Peter snatches a few violets from a flower cart before scurrying after.

Inside smells of fresh baked bread and tea. It’s homey, and most of those inside are older in age. The owners—a butcher and a produce clerk—and Michelle are discussing how proud they are in their growing business ever since they married and the wife left the Watson estate to be with her husband, just as Peter walks in, and he looks like he has terrible stage fright and was just placed in front of an auditorium of onlookers. The bushel of violets are clutched behind his back. And he hadn't thought this far, hadn't considered what to do at this point, his brain only having a beginning—grab flowers—and created an end—gain her favor.

He swallows, clears his throat, and swallows again. His vocal cords strain when he greets them with a “pardon” and “good evening.” He then turns to Michelle. Peter’s words are a question about whether she had been at the theatre weeks ago—she doesn't give a definite yes so he's a little discouraged—and thus, a little deflated, admits that the woman was the most exquisite creature he ever laid eyes on and since then he's had a strong urgency to find who she is and tell her.

Her eyes squint ever the slightest. She shifts her posture toward him, lifts her chin at his words—skeptical and cautious.

Peter displays the violets from behind his back. At that moment, the vendor owning the flowers storms inside to berate the young man about his theft. Peter is able to hurry away from persecution. All three watch him scamper out the door and disappear within the pedestrians. Michelle raises an eyebrow, a little amused.

* * *

 

 

 

> _It’s said that soulmates are perfect relationships of beautiful, enriching connections, and there is a match made for everyone._

Michelle doesn't believe in soulmates. The very idea of the possibility is preposterous, fantasy, and a way to further the sugary, overly sweet veil of romance that has blanketed the minds of the public to be wrapped around the media’s grimy little finger. It’s sold enough books to.

Surely, the idea of romance is _nice_ , but the reality of it— _the reality of it all_ is quite devastatingly awful.

Michelle finds it arduous.

Because she's witnessed neighbors be proposed to when she was six years old; then when she was eleven, Michelle heard about the once-sullen young women be turned into prancing, giddy fools the day after a soldier took their glove-clad hands; and because Michelle’s even witnessed the love affair of her house’s maidservant’s then her hand finally asked by the old Jewish baker after nearly two decades. She's heard the stories of romance passed down family lines, has read about it, had even witnessed it between retellings from her own parents when she was very small—and it had been a warm and _absolutely lovely_ thing then—she had witnessed it between her parents before her mother’s passing.

So, Michelle thinks the _idea and concept_ of romance is heavenly. But to go _through_ it, she isn't so sure. Privately, perhaps somewhere far back in her mind, she thinks she's afraid of repeating the same story of her parents that lead to sorrow: because after her mother passed, Michelle remembers her father’s grieving—for months, many months; years—and him having to lie about it in public, to the public, and never having the chance to properly mourn because there were her mother’s family who used to be close but they drifted and not only due to distance; because there was his image and authority he must keep up. And there was Michelle herself, and her father could only go on so long with a fake face alongside his new wife.

The problem with this all is—there are three, actually: one, that just over four years after his beloved passed on the night of a strong summer storm, Mr. Watson could fend off the words and gazes of others no longer and eventually caved in and remarried, giving in to the advances of an acquaintance. And it wasn't until months later, he caved in and admitted his deep feelings prevented the commitment to his new marriage. Despite having been pressured to remarry, Mr. Watson had never leaned for the favor of his married wife for all of the many years they've been together, instead usually wishing he could run to the woman he had once been in love with but can only visit her grave now.

The new wife of Michelle’s father, the new Mrs. Watson, had been a widow when they met, he earning her acquaintance through some controlling relatives of his. And with his smiling, strained and bitter, and when a marriage ring was shoved into his hands and his job preparing to be blackmailed in an “or else” scenario...Mr. Watson was never particularly _clear_ about the details when retelling the reasons behind his new marriage, but then again Michelle never really _asked_ for details. All she _does_ know and _needs_ to know was how, three months into their marriage the woman was made aware of her position as a third wheel in a very devoted relationship between a daughter, a father, and his deceased love, even despite the new wife’s pregnant condition.

The woman that Michelle’s father re-married to wasn't as cold as she _could_ have been—the second Mrs. Watson married a wealthy man and Michelle got a sister out of it, but she will forever be secondary. Second best. Second-rate. Second favored.

* * *

 

When Michelle's father finally began confiding in his legal wife more, Michelle had just skirted over the line of her “-teen” years, and then things began to take a turn. Because now, she's nearly completed her growth into becoming a woman.

She’d gotten her first menstrual at fourteen and her stepmother called her a late bloomer but was ready to send her off to be married and bear grandchildren. Michelle's bust grew and she was made into a prize to be oogled at: her corsets were tighter and the blush made more prominent on her brown cheeks and her stepmother talked increasingly of _male friends_ of hers when Michelle’s father was away. But then Michelle expressed her desire to customize the amount powder to her own face, and her stepmother grew visibly angry.

Michelle’s sister, who is hardly much younger, prides herself on getting her period two years younger than Michelle had, but as to _why_ is another issue.

The matter of the controlling antics of Mrs. Watson the Second isn't touched on further. This influences the next problem: because as Michelle continued to mature, her father increasingly pulled away for work and her stepmother took it upon _herself_ to look for suitors, usually men far older and wealthy as potential matches for marriage.

And upon finding out about it one night by his daughter’s down-casted eyes and quietness, Mr. Watson grew enraged. And it only grew when learning of the suitors—how their large, pink sausage-hands would grab Michelle’s wrist too tightly, their mouths be too thin and chapped against the back of her hand, and their beards more like rough broom bristles than human hair, Mrs. Watson II’s pleased stare as their meaty fingers turn her chin this way and that to examine, their eyes only softening a morsel before glowing with something sinister when told Michelle’s mulatto lineage.

So, when Mr. Watson finds that his beloved child was to be sold off in such an unsatisfying and upsetting manner, it was assumed he would physically flip a table by how red his face had become. It would have been understandable, too—that his beloved child, his “heart and soul” as he so sweetly calls her since birth, was practically being auctioned off which fed into so many fears. And unlike a large number of citizens that included Mrs. Watson II now, she saw no issued matter with her actions, along with a few choice words and slurs from her privileged viewpoints.

Lies were the third problem: although Michelle and her father share a very loving and close relationship, there is a static-electric line dividing herself with the other half of their family. On one hand it can be understood: despite the two Watson daughters related only by half their blood, there’s always a sort of resentment towards Michelle that wasn't about her ethnic features. Her sister, Mary Jane, has always been a bit bitter, putting her pointed button nose and flowing reddish hair as much on display as she can, jostling her premature breasts out as much on display as she could and tightens her girdle until she's blue in the face. She wants attention. She wants advocacy. She wants ardor. She's always in a personal competition against Michelle, always wanting to hit the mark first, gain the most goodwill, obtain the most notice (which is won usually with little to no chance because Michelle is older and with the favor of their father and in marrying age by the public).

Leading from the previous, the third and final long-standing problem is the constant voiceless tension in the Watsons’ household. In fact, once, after an afternoon that Mary Jane decided to be exceptionally cruel to her half-sister, Michelle uttered the most cruel thing she has ever spoken to a relative—it was an eruption in a fit of pure emotion during one of the rare occasions she hadn’t weighted her options and outcomes: following Mary Jane’s indecent words regarding the assumption that Michelle is less intelligent due to her mother’s Negro bloodline, after their father once again gave Mary Jane a pat while Michelle received a kiss to the forehead, Michelle snapped a reply to her slurs were because Mary Jane is always bitter because “I [Michelle] am the product of love—true, real love! And you were expected, only born out of an arrangement!” A part of Michelle regrets it because Mary Jane was never as mouthy since; though of course there’s a large portion of herself that is rather proud she produced the effect, _finally_ speaking her deeply harbored thoughts. Even more proud that she managed to shut Mary Jane up, the girl always turned _on_ like a tiny yapping dog.

(Michelle’s words voiced was the root reason to the tension within their well-off home.)

The sisters have never, ever gotten along, and after that outburst, they became even more distant; Mary Jane’s personal competition against her half-sister wained.

* * *

The next time Peter and Michelle meet, it’s at the marketplace again. 

Michelle has come along with Mary Jane per the order of Mrs. Watson II; her sister took this opportunity to flaunt and gain as much attention as she politely can to any passing young gentleman who complimented her. (Because she's younger and has the goal to one day, soon, gain the hand of a dreamy, handsome man and ride off to pop out three or four of his children. And Michelle...does not imagine this by a long shot.)

A man gives a compliment about Mary Jane looks sweeter than the fresh fruit being sold—Michelle _thinks_ it’s supposed to be a compliment but thinks it’s obnoxiously _cheesy_ —and she’s flirting back. The elder Watson narrows her eyes at her sister, stepping around Michelle from behind.

“ _What?_ ” Mary Jane snaps.

Both know Mrs. Watson II’s strong discouragement of women flirting, believing it was _unladylike_ and that men should make the only advances. And Michelle reminds her this, teasing and purposely being annoying.

“ _Mother_ wouldn't approve of your flirting.” Michelle only called the woman that when referencing her in sarcasm—like now.

“ _Mother_ doesn’t like a lot of things.” Mary Jane turns and struts forwarding, leading the party with her nose high and a small basket held in front of her.

It’s at the market with Michelle’s matching green veil that she's spotted by the same young man from the bakery, the one who shoved the stolen flowers in her hand which the owner snatched from hers, huffing, and angered that he was not as fast as the thief.

When they meet, she doesn't give him so much as a smirk or nod. In fact, he doesn't think she recognizes him.

As adrenaline begins rushing through his veins, Peter rolls the tomato between his palms, nervous. He’s forgotten what he’d come for and tries not to be obvious with his watching, looking for the opportunity to approach. And he thinks he’s gotten away with it too—glancing over every once in a while, acting as if he’d been looking _beyond_ her when he’s caught, once. This is proven untrue when his attention is taken and the when he looks back, she’s gone, and reappears approaching his side—and she looks upset, she looks angry.

“Is there something you _so desperately need?_ ” She’s annoyed. “To explain your uninvited and unwanted staring?”

“Oh—I—I hadn’t meant—”

“It would serve you well to have an explanation that doesn’t involve indecency or exploitation?” Her signature purple ribbon is woven in a brain that hangs over her shoulder.

“You—you—I’ve—”

“Do I _not_ deserve an explanation?” she goes, not giving him time to respond. “Is there something my family owes you? Do I _know_ you?”

“I was just—just—trying to recall...I must have seen you once before. At—”

“At the bakery, once. Yes, I recall.”

His shoulders loose a little of their tension.

“You shoved a bunch of stolen violets in my hands and then ran off like a juvenile, not atoning for your actions.” She was ruthless, staring back with equally unbreaking attention, but more judgmental.

“I’d been—” He starts, searches for an explanation, finds it a split second later, the lie tumbling out before he could stop himself. “—Searching for this maiden. I saw her, once—I last saw her at a theatre and I didn’t get the chance to— I’ve seen her before and we’ve conversed during outings before...”

There’s a pause as Michelle studies him for several seconds. “So you’ve only seen this maiden and you want to approach her with _flowers?_ ” She chuckles but it’s purely mocking. “Do you have an idea how repulsive that sounds?”

He gaps; snaps his jaw closed once catching Mary Jane approach, peaking out from behind Michelle. “That is not what I meant! I’ve seen her reading a book and I hoped to hear her opinions on it but I never got the chances, and...” He trails off catching Mary Jane’s scathing glare.

Michelle rates his validity with a high-raised eyebrow.

She reaches over a bushel of vegetables and asks, coy, “did you happen to run into that mystery woman of yours?”

Judging by his exhale, he hadn't. “No I haven't,” and Peter glances to her and adds, “equally mysterious miss.”

“That’s too bad.” She doesn’t show signs to have heard the addition, inspecting the vegetables on display—but Mary Jane had, looking both shocked and _offended_. Michelle continues, unfazed: “I’m sure she would have certainly been charmed by the show of you being disciplined from stealing flowers.”

“From what I know, women _like_ flowers,” Peter defends, a little hurt.

Michelle shrugs. “Maybe most...but you being arrested over them...not attractive at all.” She tsks.

A grin begins to appear. “Who is to say that was the only trick up my sleeve?”

And that’s when Mary Jane interjects, worming her way between both. “ _Excuse me_ ,” she’s loud and obnoxious, purposely drawing attention. “But what is a _gentleman_ such as yourself doing conversing over...produce like this.”

“Uh, talking.”

Mary Jane’s hips bumps Michelle, forcing herself directly between both young adults. “And what do _you_ do?”

“Smithing.” His brows furrow, the air of emotion that was once forming begins cooling—then even further upon Mary Jane’s _put off_ look.

“Seriously? But no one uses carriages anymore,” she states, incredulously.

“Some do,” Michelle comments. “We used ours just the week before.”

Mary Jane doesn’t show signs to have heard but a roll of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, and _the look_ on her face when she wants something, the one she _knows_ will make people give her what she wants. “Perhaps you could come and inspect our horse’s shoes. I’m sure they’re rusty old things by now. They haven’t been changed in some time and I’m sure they need an improvement.”

Michelle squints in disbelief at how quickly the other began her advances.

“Sure, sure. I can.” He looks directly at Michelle and the electricity returning to the air. “If that’s alright with you...and approved by you of—of course.”

Michelle begins answering to tell that it isn't truly her decision, as it would be her father’s, but Mary Jane answers for her: “It definitely is.” She’s wearing her prize-winning smile. “This weekend would be a perfect time.”

“Alright.” Peter tries to smile.

“Um, actually,” Michelle tries again.

“So it’s settled? By the way, I’m Mary Jane Watson.” She outstretches her hand for Peter to take, expecting a kiss on the back.

He does take it but shakes it once, only. “Pleasure.”

Noticing Peter’s attention taken to her half-sister, Mary Jane _introduces_ Michelle for her: “and she’s unmarried. Or engaged. Still.”

There’s a sparkle behind Peter’s eyes at hearing this and saying, “what a shame.” Goosebumps explode over Michelle’s skin under his gaze.

“But _me_ , I’m available and of marrying age.” Mary Jane inches closer. “I look forward to your visit. Feel free to request for me when you arrive.”

“No thanks.”

* * *

 

Michelle hadn’t taken him seriously about the horseshoe relation, unexpecting a visitor when carrying a pail of chicken feed in her night gown early in the morning.

And their  _meeting_ —if you were to call it such—involved a shrill shriek that startled her sleeping stepmother, a crash that spewed chicken feed across the lawn and gave the birds a feast, and a cry as the pail barely missed and grazed Peter’s ear in her startle.

And Michelle wasn’t even startled as she was more _angry_. Because how _dare_ he come by unannounced—and she first things he’s here to _con_ them—and then _how dare_ he come for her sister after all, Michelle thinks to herself, because Mary Jane is _young_ , too young than Michelle assumed this man would be interested in, him being near her age.

“I’m not here by the persuasion of the younger Miss Watson, by any chance,” he explains once regaining his breath.

As it turns out, Mary Jane’s input worked in his favor and her father hired him for the afternoon.

And from the house windows, Michelle watches with a frown as Mary Jane saunters over to the stables with an illusion of innocence. From their home, Michelle hears a faraway neigh, catches her sister following the man out of the stable, like a child after a sweet, still chatting away. The more she watches—pausing to catch a glimpse as she gets a cup of tea, fixes herself lunch, finally finishes the book she’d been reading—the more Michelle picks up that this man has been trying to _avoid_ her sister, and Michelle _laughs_ at it.

Her sister has always been a sponge for attention even before she began talking. And whenever she doesn’t receive the attention sought, Mary Jane puffs up with anger, she turns sour with annoyance, grinds her teeth in jealousy.

That’s why when the younger Watson sister finally gave up her little chase, turning back to their home, Michelle darts away from the windows lest Mary Jane saw her. The last thing she needs is for the other to piece together she’d been watching, and then targets Michelle for her soured attitude.

So, as Mary Jane enters the home form one door, Michelle grabs the new book she just began and darts out the kitchen door and rushes off to the yard.

Right after Mary Jane leaves, their blacksmith visitor suddenly has to calm a nervous horse by himself, it unsettled that one of its owners has left.

It’s on a swing tied to a tree in view of their animal enclosures does Michelle retire peacefully with her book. ...But as the morning wore on, Michelle could _swear_ that the tinkering of metal grows louder, that the young blacksmith was _most definitely_ passing through this way unnecessarily when there was a much  _quicker route_ between the horse's stable room and a small table of tools outside it, taking measurements of its feet.

He's comforting their horse in its stable but she _just knows_ that he's doing all this for show.

And, Michelle is suspicious enough when suspecting he has the _gall_ to continuing doing so as if she’s _really going_ to turn her attention from her book. As if she’s going to _care_ about his flexing back or perspiring biceps from his rolled sleeves. _As if_ she musters a _care_ to watch him bend and reshape the horse’s metal shoes.

The sun catches on a piece of metal he's carrying and briefly blinds her. It's consequence.

...She’d been holding her book parallel to her face but she’s since lowered it be just below her eyes.

When he catches her watching, she’s _mortified_ , spitting out an excuse that it’s for _supervision of a stranger, of course!_

He’s unperturbed and takes a break to ask what book she’s been reading.

Michelle tries not to focus too much on the red in his face, emphasizing the display of dust-brown freckles across his nose, or the hair matted to his forehead from the heat and he's out of breath from having to calm down the horse. She tries not to think an excessive amount about the warmth that begins intensifying across her face, hidden beneath the light brown of her skin, as she answers him.

**Author's Note:**

> if this is not hated and if i get critics or comments on this, i would be much more motivated to work on another chapter. feel free to send suggestions of any thing you want to see in the next chapter!


End file.
